


Coin Slot

by WhoopsOK



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Dirty Talk, Dom Sam Winchester, Forniphilia, Human Urinal Dean Winchester, In Public, Kinktober, M/M, Objectification, Public Humiliation, Scat, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 05:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12247941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoopsOK/pseuds/WhoopsOK
Summary: “How much to use it?”Dean hears Sam shrug like he hadn’t even thought about it. “Quarter?”(Dean is a very nice toilet and Sam is willing to share for a while.)Heed the tags.





	Coin Slot

**Author's Note:**

> October 2nd, dirty talk, watersports, forniphilia
> 
> Yo, the initial prompts were as mentioned, but if you’ll notice, there’s been a scat tag added. As in, there’s shit/shitting involved in this story, but NO eating of it. Even so, if poop’s not your deal then please, by all means, skip this one. That said, consider yourself warned, doll.
> 
> Also, hm… I’d never actually seen the word forniphilia before, so I feel like it might be cheating to count this fic as a 3 for 3, but [vague noises and meaningless gestures]

Dean can’t see.

That has been part of the plan since the beginning. Dean didn’t want to be able to see, he didn’t need to; Sam being able to see would be enough for him. He also didn’t need to be able to move. Part of him, a big part, an _important_ part, is… well, Sam uses the word ‘difficult’. It isn’t that Dean _likes_ being punished, it’s that sometimes he can’t help himself. Fighting back, even against things he wants, is just a reflex. Listening to Sam is natural _after_ the initial impulse, but Dean doesn’t want to be given that chance.

Sitting with his hands bound tightly down the legs of a chair and his chest threaded with rope to the back, by a professional who knows all the same tricks he does, made him relax in a weird sort of way. So did having his legs taped all the way up to his knees, pressed together so he can’t separate them more than a hair’s breadth. Even his _head_ — it was a collar, Dean knew that much, but he’d never worn one so _big_. It covered his whole throat, keeping his face tipped upward.

“I’d gag you if I wasn’t using your mouth,” Sam had commented as he was putting it on, voice echoing slightly off the tiles. Then he’d twisted Dean’s exposed nipples, _viciously_ , when he’d gone to say something smart. “ _No._ I said your _mouth_ , not your _voice._ ”

Dean wants to believe he has to bite back the words then, but that’s not true. They fall away completely at Sam’s tone like he’d never thought them at all. He doesn’t know why he keeps agreeing to—no, that’s not true either. He absolutely knows why he’s here, he just doesn’t like thinking about it.

But in the silence, immobile and naked, the reason comes to him easily.

Sam’s voice cutting through the pain and an impending orgasm trapped behind a cock-ring, “ _You’d do anything?_ ”

Dean twisted beneath him, drooling and crying like a bitch, “ _Fuck, yes, anything you want, Sammy, please just let me—_ ”

“ _What if I wanted to let everyone use you, huh? Since you want it so bad, what if I made you a fucking urinal for the whole truck stop?_ ” Sam had demanded teasingly and it had been _just teasing_ , an attempt to twist Dean’s arm and make him tap out, because Dean’s willingness to tap out is important to Sam, too. But instead of wording out, Dean had come all over himself, cock-ring be _damned_ , moaning and sobbing, begging, “ _Please_.”

Dean really isn’t good at keeping secrets from Sam anymore.

He is getting better at obeying him, though, so he stays quiet even when a few moments later the sharp scent of a permanent marker hits just before Sam drags it across his chest. He wants to know what it says. He doesn’t ask and thinks that the pat on the head that follows is a reward for his restraint.

Sam has not asked for his voice, so he doesn’t need it. All he needs is to sit still and be quiet.

When the bathroom door swings open, Dean jerks in place, flashes hot when the motion gets him exactly nowhere. There is a pair of footsteps and voices, moving quick across the room until they get to a place where they can see Dean. They freeze there, shocked silent; Dean can practically hear their double take.

“Hey, guys,” Sam says amiably from somewhere to Dean’s right.

“Howdy…” one replies tentatively, voice thick and deep. Dean can feel the man’s gaze on him for too many of his own quickened breaths before he hears, “How much to use it?”

Dean hears Sam shrug like he hadn’t even thought about it. “Quarter?”

“Aw, come on, that’s the prettiest urinal I ever saw,” the other voice says, “He’s at least worth a buck.”

Sam laughs and Dean feels himself go bright red. “Suit yourself,” he says, “Use his mouth for that price.”

After a quick shuffling of paper, the sound of two zippers flying open sets Dean to trembling minutely, clenching his fists against the weight of his embarrassment. Not at being in this position, but at the fact that everyone here can clearly see he’s chubbing up in anticipation.

“You gonna make this difficult?” Sam asks and it takes Dean a moment to realize he’s supposed to open his mouth. He swallows against the way his mouth waters, against the threat Sam just implied, and licks his lips before opening wide.

“Fuck, you lucky dog, those _lips,_ ” the second guy says to Sam and a second later the acrid taste of piss is flooding Dean’s mouth. Sucking in a sharp breath through his nose, Dean is suddenly nothing but the smell and taste of lager piss as it fills his mouth and dribbles down his chin, dripping off the collar onto his chest. The sound of it gathering in his mouth and the relieved – _aroused_ – groan the man lets out seems to get a hook right in his gut and tug, he’s good for this, he’s good for this, this feels _so fucking good_.

The stream tapers off eventually, a few splatters of piss hitting him in the face when the guy shakes off and Dean shudders, cold as he steps back. The door is opening again, more voices coming in as the second guy steps close.

“Does it flush automatically?” he drawls and Dean stomach flutters at what he’s implying.

His first impulse is to spit the piss back at the guy just on principal. The second impulse, the one that really makes his insides swim, is to swallow so he doesn’t waste the piss.

Though a bit dribbles down the side of his mouth as he does, he swallows it all down, sticking his tongue out when he finishes.

“There we go,” the man groans and he rewards – _rewards,_ Dean? – Dean by pissing like a firehose directly against the back of his throat, making him gag. He doesn’t even cut off when Dean goes to swallow, pissing on his face without pause.

There’s murmuring from the people who just entered, some disgusted, some interested and Sam’s voice fielding them all. As long as Sam’s voice is in the mix, Dean doesn’t care to focus on exactly what’s being said. Sammy will handle everything. Dean just has to be still and flush like a good toilet.

The room seems to swell with people and suddenly there’s a line.

The line moves forward and some of them speak to him – “ _You’re a slut, too, ain’t you?_ ” “ _Fuck yeah, swallow my piss_ ” “ _You’re flushing slow, you backed up?_ ” “ _You’re probably so fucking full_ ” – and their words wash warm and nearly meaningless over Dean. _He is, he is, he is, he is,_ yes, but ultimately he likes it better when they treat him like he can’t even hear them. As if Sam is the charming restroom attendant, more worthy of their attention than the toilet he’s minding.

By the time the line trickles down to the last few patrons, Dean’s stomach is uncomfortably full now and it’s weighing on his own bladder enough that he can’t sit still. His bonds are still tight, his wiggling having got him practically no leeway, nothing but bruises. He swallows again and his stomach twinges, throat feeling rough and tired like it’s been fucked; he can’t stifle a groan.

The room isn’t empty, but the stifling heat of a crowd around him has dissipated like they’re all just hanging back, watching. Dean is dizzy and full and floating in that space just short of active arousal, his dick having gotten hard and gone soft again so many times it’s a constant ache of _not enough, not enough_. He wants Sam to handle him so bad he thinks he might be crying, but he can’t tell with the piss on his cheeks.

Another presence steps up before him and his mouth falls back open automatically, without thought. He’s so fucking full, maybe if he just takes a little more in it’ll be enough, he’ll have enough to get there. Nothing comes so he just sits there, mouth open, confused.

A soft, wanting sound escapes someone when a string of drool drips off his lip.

“How much for…?” the guy directly in front of him begins, but trails off.

Dean imagines him making the motion for a blow job. But that answer should have been easy, Sam would say _no_ and the guy would piss on him or fuck off. Dean’s a toilet when he’s trussed up like this, not a hooker. He won’t suck a dick he hasn’t seen; Sam knows that.

So Sam’s hesitation and eventual answer of “Ten bucks, not in his mouth, though,” throws him for a loop.

Maybe the guy asked to hit him? No, Sam doesn’t let—Maybe he’s going to touch Dean’s—? _No,_ Sam wouldn’t let some stranger have—

The sound of a zipper opening has his heart fluttering in confusion, but Sam is here, _Sam is here_. Sam wouldn’t let anyone hurt him or do something he’s said no to when he could speak. Sam is armed and strong; Sam loves him and nothing bad is going to happen to him. So he doesn’t need to think, Sam thinks for him right now. Toilets have no need for higher thought.

So Dean listens to the shuffling of clothing absently, picks Sam’s breathing out of the heaving breath of their watchers, the sticky-slick of some of them touching themselves or each other, away from Dean. All the attention in the room, though, is on him, even Sam’s. Dean is fine.

There’s a moment when he doesn’t understand what’s happening, though.

The smell comes to him first, but there’s been so many smells since he sat down in here, blind and immobile, that it doesn’t mean anything. Then there’s murmuring, some again with horrified disgust and some again with interest, open mouthed, unrestrained moans. Those sounds fall to the back of Dean’s mind as he scrambles to figure out and then successfully places the crackling sound just in front of him.

Dean makes a noise like he’s been punched when the tip of the guy’s turd brushes against his bare stomach, before sliding to settle across his lap, his _dick._ When the hard part falls off, the man grunts and a few quick spurts of liquid shit follow after, settling in the crevice where his thighs are pressed together, some of it running in a tickling line over the sides of his legs. He’s huffing for breath and he wishes he could _stop_ , because _the smell_ , but he can’t, he _can’t_ , he’s so embarrassed—

“Holy _fucking_ shit _,_ ” someone whispers.

A pile of shit is sitting hot and heavy in his lap and Dean’s body takes this as a reason to get hard enough to drive nails.

“Fucking hell,” Sam mutters, similarly shocked as the man in front of Dean scrambles upright and turns around, only to groan at the sight Dean must make.

“ _Fuck_ , you got yourself a good one,” he gasps. “Can I—?”

“No,” Sam answers in a tone that implies he shouldn’t be asked again. The man is wise enough to not ask again, stepping backwards and leaving Dean trembling and hard with his shit all over his lap. “I think it’s had enough.”

Dean recognizes that command immediately, but it takes the others a few moments for the information to register. Sam must’ve had to look at them for it to click, but then they’re all shuffling off towards the showers or lockers or exit, some grumbling, but most completely understanding of Sam’s sudden rush of possessiveness. Dean thinks he even hears a few extra tips changes hands, but he can’t focus over how his breathing and throbbing arousal make the shit shift against him continually. Could he get off like this? He doesn’t know, it certainly feels like it, but he needs Sam, he needs _something_ from Sam.

When the area goes quiet enough that he can’t hear anything over the sound of his own breathing, he chances a whimper, a signal for Sam that Dean’s reaching some sort of breaking point. Dean doesn’t know which, but he hopes Sam can figure it out.

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam says softly and his voice shifts over Dean’s head, standing looking down at him. “Shit does it for you, too, huh?”

Dean doesn’t have the words to answer, but he doesn’t have to. The sound he makes in response is closer to a sob than anything actually intelligible. _Please, Sammy, something, something, anything._

“Good, I was thinking I would have to hold it,” Sam mumbles and Dean says the first thing that comes to mind.

“ _Sammy_ ,” he gasps, voice raspy and desperate.

“Toilets don’t need to speak, I know what you need,” Sam replies, but he doesn’t sound chastising, he sounds coddling as he rids himself of his pants. “You’re almost done.”

Dean’s almost done, Dean can almost pee himself, _come all over himself_.

When Sam moves towards him, it’s not backwards like they’re strangers. He’s taken his pants off completely so he can get close, straddling Dean’s legs, his dick hovering close to Dean’s face. The taste of Sam’s piss is not much different than any other, but Dean swears it’s the fucking best. If it weren’t for the collar on his throat, he might attempt to drink it right from the source.

Sam must feel that in him because moments later, he obliges. Pressing the head of his dick against Dean’s lips, letting Dean suckle the piss out of him until there’s nothing coming but the taste of Sam’s growing arousal sliding across his tongue.

“Yeah, Dean, just take it,” he says and Dean lets his mouth go slack as Sam jerks into it. When Sam’s hands find his shoulders, Dean thinks it to be a comfort, a reward, but realizes moments later it’s just Sam steadying himself. “Just take it,” he says again his voice strained.

Groaning helplessly, Dean jerks under his hands as Sam’s dick angles oddly in his mouth and then his shit starts coiling atop Dean’s aching arousal. It’s soft and hot and there’s so _much, he’d been holding it_ and it’s Sam’s, it’s _Sam’s_ and Dean can’t take anymore. He can barely get his hips to move, but Sam will never fail to get more out of Dean than either thought possible. His tiny jerking motions are enough to rock that warm shit across his dick and Dean’s coming so hard he bucks and chokes around Sam’s dick.

Sam lets out a string of swears at the feeling, ending on “ _Yeah, Dean,_ ” as he grinds in deep and comes down Dean’s fluttering throat.

Gasping and coughing as Sam pulls out, Dean shivers, half crying as he tries to catch his breath with his forehead pressed against his brother’s hip. He’s sticky with piss and almost jerks back, the idea of getting it on Sam _unthinkable_ , but then Sam’s hand is on his head, holding him there as he struggles to breathe. “It’s ok, Dean, you were _so_ good.”

“Sammy _,_ ” Dean cries and lets Sam pet him, feeling as fragile as he ever has. “ _Sammy_.”

“I’m right here,” Sam assures him, sounding for all the world like he’s assuring Dean of something he genuinely might not have known. “You did so good, Dean, so good,” he whispers, “Everyone could hardly keep their eyes off you,” he strokes his hand down Dean’s aching back, “They wanted to touch you so bad.”

Dean shakes his head, pressing his face against Sam’s skin. “Just you.”

“Just me,” Sam agrees, then tucks his fingers under the back of Dean’s blindfold. “Do you want to see yourself?”

The thought kicks hard in Dean’s chest and dislodges the truth before he can hold it back. “I dunno,” he slurs, “I really gotta pee.” Sam’s chuckle makes him feel a little better, though.

“Ok. Let’s get you cleaned up for now,” Sam says, then steps back mumbling, “You can see the pictures later if you want.”

Dean flashes hot. “The _what?_ ” he gasps, then freezes at the sound of Sam’s knife flipping open.

“Hold still,” Sam says and Dean can hear his smile as he cuts open the tape on his legs. He peels the tape off Dean’s calves, rubbing them gently. “One thing at a time.”

And Dean has a lot of questions making his stomach flutter, but he doesn’t feel like speaking any more. Sam crosses behind him and snips the tape on his arms, murmuring praise when Dean leaves his arms obediently limp at his sides. When Sam lets him stand, the feeling of shit sliding off his lap gives him goosebumps but the sound of it splatting on the tile actually makes him groan.

The blindfold doesn’t come off until several minutes after Sam has lead Dean into a coin shower. He’d brushed his teeth while they waited for the water to get warm, pissed on his own feet once they’d gotten in, and stood complacently still while Sam scrubbed at him with a disposable wash cloth Dean hopes gets incinerated after. The light in the shower is pretty filtered, but Dean’s vision still swims for a moment before he can clearly take in his brother’s face as he washes his hair for him.

“Hey, D,” Sam smiles at him and Dean blinks the shampoo out of his eyes, grateful for on-the-go tooth brushes, because now he can surge forward to kiss Sam as soon as the impulse hits. Sam laughs, the sound vibrating against Dean’s lips, “Good to have you back, man.”

By the time they’re leaving the stall, Dean feels almost completely human. Never more so than the moment they leave the bathroom area for the parking lot and Dean feels like every eye in the vicinity is locked on him.

There’s dozens of people out here, no way even _most_ of them know what he just went through. They’re probably just looking at him because he’s spectacularly handsome, isn’t he, he knows that, but suddenly it feels like maybe he should’ve peed again before they left because his stomach is twinging tight and suddenly his mouth is dry and he feels himself going pink, someone shit in his lap less than an hour ago and, _did that guy just wink at him?_

Sam’s movement is smooth and seemingly careless, but Dean recognizes the sharp glint in his eyes enough that he freezes on the spot when Sam turns to him. He doesn’t even step back when he moves in a little too close to be considered casual and there are _definitely_ eyes on them now, but Dean can’t give a rat’s ass about them with Sam staring down at him like that. The lines of his smile are dangerous, arrogant almost in a way that Dean is forced to admit he finds comforting.

_Who cares about them? I’m done sharing today. They all know you’re mine. Man, toilet, otherwise; mine, mine, mine._

“Yours,” Dean breathes even though Sam hasn’t said anything, because it feels like the right answer.

With the proud, smirking warmth that eclipses Sam’s face, Dean can see that it is.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading…know your worth and then add a convenience fee
> 
> Also, also! I’m planning on participating in [ Fandom Loves Puerto Rico](https://fandomlovespuertorico.dreamwidth.org/434.html)! So keep your eyes out if you want anything from me! Or someone else, last I checked there was over a hundred people signed up, so be sure to check it out!
> 
> (Unsexy and hopefully unnecessary reminders: _Healthy_ pee is _mostly_ sterile, but you know, getting pissed on by/drinking the piss of strangers still has a chance of getting you sick. Play safely, dolls.)


End file.
